


Mute

by violenteer



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, this isn't as hardcore as it sounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-21 05:52:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14278290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violenteer/pseuds/violenteer
Summary: Eddie and Waylon have been shackled together by the wrists for a few days.





	Mute

Eddie and Waylon have been shackled together by the wrists for a few days. 

Waylon’s hand started to go purple and blue after two of those days, and his wrist has been rubbed so raw that he thinks when he’s just breathing, not moving, not thinking, he can’t even feel the limb. 

They’re nowhere important. There was a holding room in the beginning, and then from there they were both thrown down into a cell. It looks like the vocational block, but Waylon knows it can’t be. It’s just quiet like the vocational block was. Just smells like mildew and makes him think there are men fast as hares around each corner. Though, Waylon can’t look around too many of those from where he’s positioned on the floor.

His hair’s swept back from his face, but two or three stray pieces of oily hair keep creeping back into his line of sight. He hasn’t eaten food since stale bread and a pack crackers were thrown in for the two of them a day back. His stomach gurgles, but when Waylon catches an unadulterated whiff of himself, the feeling of hunger dies easily.

Murkoff had collapsed after the initial raid. Waylon was around for it, and to his extreme displeasure, so was Jeremy Blaire. There were no words exchanged between them before Jeremy brought Waylon to his knees with a knee to the stomach.

Then Waylon was knocked out. He awoke to the footage he’d recorded all across the room he’d been locked inside of. Eddie was beside him. The right half of his side was packed with gauze and all sorts of different shit to keep him whole. He was impaled, after all.

For a second Waylon’d thought he was just seeing things. He thought he was hallucinating.

It wasn’t a hallucination.

He doesn’t know why they’re still in the cell, but he supposes it’s because the authorities are slower than they should be.

Jeremy was gutted in front of them on day three, after all.

Waylon and Eddie don’t speak that often. Not that often. Eddie, for the most part, is too weak to do much beside snap and snarl when he’s feeling particularly offended. To Waylon he seems lucid. There are no baby carriages reflected in his pale blue eyes. Eddie doesn’t rant about a perfect wife anymore.

No, his actions now are much simpler. When it’s time for them both to sleep (or rather, when it’s time Eddie decides he should sleep), he pulls Waylon close on the shit-crusted floor and brings a thick arm around his middle. To keep Waylon in place, Waylon guesses. Maybe to derive some sort of comfort. He doesn’t know. In a way, it’s a necessity that they cuddle.

The cuffs aren’t exactly flexible.

First time it happens, Waylon struggles immediately to get away, convinced Eddie’s snapped back and wants Waylon’s head.

It’s not like that. Eddie says as much.

“Stop. Do you want to catch your death before you get to leave?” Eddie barks.

Waylon hadn’t heard him speak since the gymnasium. The voice crowding his ear sounds like it did then, only now it’s painted over in cold hues of blue and gray. Strict, cajoling, resigned. Waylon looks back for a few seconds to catch Eddie’s eyes.

He meets his chest instead, then remembers he must look up. Even laying down like this, Eddie dwarfs him. Eddie’s expression is tight. Waylon can’t see underneath the strain.

Briefly, he nods his assent. His heart is jack-hammering in his chest and he doesn’t want to cause more trouble than their cuddling is worth. So he lies still, back tense, muscles locked into a rictus composure, and shuts his eyes.

Waylon finds he doesn’t like to talk anymore.

Eddie asks about it sometime during day two. He even mentions shock, which momentarily gets Waylon to look hard at him and discern whether he’s sympathetic or simply adept. 

When Eddie presses, Waylon shakes the point where they’re connected. Hard enough to bring a seething hiss from Eddie’s scabbed-over lips.

“A man can go crazy with so much silence.” Eddie tells him.

Waylon doesn’t think he’d mind.

On day five, Waylon wakes up with Eddie’s body on top of him, their shackled hands creating a point away from the rest of their bodies. Eddie’s holding him down with his free hand. His eyes are glazed and he’s rutting against Waylon desperately, like some sort of animal. Like any one of the inmates inside Mount Massive.

Waylon flinches and tries to move.

Eddie bucks harder. He leans down to bite hard into Waylon’s neck until Waylon’s mouth is open in a silent scream. The pain is unbearable. It layers over and effectively erases the rubbed-raw feeling from Waylon’s wrist.

There are intermittent clanging sounds as Eddie gets faster and faster, hips snapping and twitching forward. Waylon hollows out his chest and swings his own free hand up to hit Eddie as hard as he can. He’s terrified. His eyes are locked on the hall beyond them. What if – if anyone saw them – if there were any cameras recording – but no. Waylon knows there aren’t, just like he knows as soon as he does it that his hand will break as Eddie forces it up parallel with the other. Now it’s as if Waylon’s being made to surrender.

He is being made to surrender.

Eddie kisses Waylon where he’s bitten. Waylon, despite himself, sucks in a sharp breath.

He cants his own hips up.

To make it go faster.

Waylon thinks about how much pain he would be in if he forced his hand free of the cuff.

Eddie’s sleeping again. Waylon can feel the familiar tent of his dick at his back, and it makes him want to squirm, but instead he keeps his posture passive.

It’s been two more days since Eddie woke him up with a round of vicious dry-humping. Since then, he’s acted as though it never happened.

And Waylon, of course, is silent.


End file.
